Zero Point
by LadySilver
Summary: After the events of "The Measure of Ourselves," Jackson hosts a First Line only party to get even with Scott. While Scott slowly loses his ability to hang on to his human side, Danny is forced to question his and Jackson's interest in Scott.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This was written for the Werewolf Big Bang on LJ. Biggest thanks go to fountainxxpenny who took a throwaway scene and provided the encouragement, nagging, support, and brainstorming to make it become a story. Thanks also to bethskink for providing a clear eye at the end and helping fill in the cracks. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault._

_A/N2: This story is a direct sequel to "The Measure of Ourselves." Note that, though the final chapter of that story has not yet been posted, it has been drafted, and this story makes direct reference to at least one event in it._

**Trigger Warnings:** Hazing, Underage Drinking, Some Strong Language, In-Character Victim Blaming, The Use of Wolfsbane-as-a-Roofie

**Zero Point**

by LadySilver

Scott wasn't sure why he agreed to attend the party at Jackson's house, especially after how their weekend had ended. When Jackson organized the lacrosse team's room assignments in Scott's favor, he had said that Scott could "thank him later." Scott had been so focused on getting through the full moon to give any real thought to the obvious overtones of threat in that statement. Afterwards, on the bus ride back to Beacon Hills, Jackson had issued the invitation to his house, delivering it in person to carefully selected players. They were going to have a small party, a little event to celebrate their fourth State win. Jackson insisted that it was tradition, bonding. "The first line _always_ does this after State," he said, as if Scott were too stupid to have figured that out himself. "_Just_ the first line," the older boy added. The subtext was obvious: Stiles was not invited.

Scott thought about rejecting the invitation in protest of the rules, until Stiles also hit him with the "are you stupid" look when Scott tried to back out of going. "You have to go," his best friend insisted, voice cracking with excitement. Stiles always talked with his whole body, but now he was particularly vocal, arms waving like he was directing air traffic. "These parties are _legendary_." He rolled his head. "No one who wasn't there knows what goes on at them, but they're _legendary_. If you have an invite, you have to take it. It's the closest I'm ever going to get, so you have to go, dude." Stiles paused to inhale. Seeing his opportunity, Scott threw up his hands in surrender and started agreeing until the red drained out of Stiles's cheeks.

A niggling fear worried at Scott that he was being set up. Despite Stiles's insistence, Scott nearly talked himself out of attending the party several times while he showered and chatted with his mom. So when he finally arrived at Jackson's house—a white stucco mansion in a part of town Scott had never been in—he breathed a small sigh of relief at seeing other cars already there. Lights flooded the front of the house and he could hear the other players inside talking. He was the last to arrive. Jackson greeted him at the door with a sweeping eye-appraisal that didn't come down in Scott's favor. "It's about time," he said, holding the door open just wide enough for Scott to slip through. The hallway was marble and wood, open all the way to the roof with a heavy crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Scott couldn't help hunching in on himself to his well-worn jeans and thrift store shirt.

Jackson started down the hall, clearly expecting Scott to follow. "Leave your keys and phone there," he said, gesturing to a wide metal dish on a side table in the hallway. The dish already held a collections of phones and keys, all tangled together. "We're in the rumpus room," he added, over his shoulder. He stopped, turned back. "And we're having pizza delivered for a late dinner." He glanced at his watch. "I hope that won't be a problem." There was a buried sneer in his tone that suggested that he thought pizza should be a problem, and that he had ordered it _because_ of that.

Scott's brow furrowed as he tried to work out why. Then it hit him and he rolled his eyes. "I'm not a vampire," he responded. "You know that. And I happen to love pizza." Jackson's fumbled trick was confusing; he'd _helped _chain Scott up for the full moon. He knew the truth and he'd been okay with it before, inasmuch as Jackson had ever been okay with Scott being a werewolf. While Stiles's very-not-funny joke that morning had rightfully upset Jackson, ordering garlic pizza seemed like an unusually petty, and poorly thought out, revenge. If it weren't for Stiles's earlier insistence, Scott would have left right then. Instead, he tugged off his hoodie and draped it over his arm, still trying to take in the house and the foyer without gawping or looking like a total rube. As responses go, it wasn't a good one and he knew it, but he wasn't willing to let Jackson's needling get to him this early. Especially when the guy didn't know how to select his needles. Despite his reservation, Scott did drop his phone into the dish as directed. He hadn't driven to the party, so his keys stayed in his pocket.

Jackson's eyes narrowed and he turned on his heel a little too hard. Midway down the hall he opened a door and headed down the stairs. Voices poured up through the portal. No music, though. Or video game noise. Scott paused in the doorway and listened, counting heartbeats. He'd spent enough time with his teammates to recognize them all that way, and it didn't take him long to verify that all the first line were there. He also picked up the high pitched tone of a television that was turned on a blank screen. The other boys probably didn't hear it at all, which is why they kept it on. Scott rubbed his ears, steeling himself. That particular tone didn't hurt, but did grate.

Jackson's rumpus room was more like a loft apartment. Bigger than the apartment Scott had lived in with his parents when they were married, it was one open space with partial walls that etched out room boundaries. A couple of the boys sat on a group of black leather furniture around the largest flat screen TV Scott had ever seen. The rest hovered around the pool table, foosball table, and selection of pinball machines that seemed to mark the game area—though no one was playing any of them. Farther down, Scott spotted what looked like a small, though full, kitchen, and a pair of bedrooms. He shook his head in disbelief. What could anyone need with this much space in their house?

As he stepped into the basement, all the eyes turned to him. A couple of the guys raised their hands in lackluster greeting, then promptly turned back to what they were doing. Standing so close together, their shoulders formed a barrier, with him locked on the wrong side. Despite being on first line, he hadn't really developed friendships with any of the guys outside of their time on the field together. Now they were all angry with him, upset at what they thought was Scott's disrespect for the team since he had, in their eyes, blown off the semi-final for no good reason. The fact that the team had swept the finals didn't matter to them. Scott had ditched them and they weren't inclined to forgive him. He didn't blame them one bit.

"Now that's everyone's here," Jackson spoke from behind the raised counter that set the kitchen area off from the main room, "Let's start having some fun." Danny stepped out from behind the counter, open beer bottles laced between his fingers. Whatever the other boys had been doing, they changed direction, heading for those bottles like puppies to a thrown stick. Scott followed, though not in any hurry. Meanwhile, Jackson picked up a pair of remote controls that had also been sitting in front of him and started pushing buttons. Half the lights in the basement went out and the TV sprang on, its volume turned up louder than even human ears needed. Scott winced, tried to hide it. He could almost feel Jackson's satisfaction at pushing his buttons, too.

Scott leaned against the wall in between the couch and pool table and tried to make himself as invisible as possible while he watched the guys. The wall was brick and rough on his back through his layered shirts. The basement had a slight musty stench, though not overwhelming, even to his nose. The movie Jackson had selected was about werewolves. Naturally. A stack of DVDs on the floor next to the TV revealed that Jackson planned to keep the bad werewolf movies rolling all night. This wasn't like any party Scott had ever been to. There was no music, dancing, or girls. Most of the guys here were seniors. They clearly had their friendships all in place, their jokes and rituals well established.

"You don't look like you're having much fun," Danny said, coming to stand next to him. He held out a beer to Scott, who waved it off. He'd barely touched his first one, which he must have set down somewhere without even noticing. What was the point anymore?

"Is this the legendary party?" Scott asked. "Bad movies and beer?" He tried not to whine, couldn't quite keep all the complaint out of his voice. The way Stiles had talked, this was supposed to be the time of his life.

"Nah," Danny replied. He peered around at the partygoers as if trying to see the proceedings through Scott's eyes. "This is just the getting drunk phase." He offered a slight shrug by way of an apology at what he saw. "The horror movies are on to help set the mood. Interesting choice, though," he added. "Gotta wonder why Jackson chose werewolf movies for this year's theme." He shrugged as soon as he finished voicing the oddity, absolving Scott of any need to weigh in, then held out the open bottle again. This time Scott accepted it. The bottle was chilled and damp. His fingers curled around it self-consciously and he held the bottle away from himself like he didn't know what he was supposed to do with it. That just made him feel more self-conscious, because now he looked like a naïve sophomore and that wouldn't help him fit in with the other guys at all.

"Why aren't you over with them?" Scott asked, nodding toward where the other guys were cheering on an epic and raucous foosball game that had sprung up. As soon as the beer had come out, any rules about staying off the gaming equipment had vanished and the boys had descended on it with pent up ferocity.

Danny shrugged. "Not really my thing," he replied. He watched them contemplatively for a long moment. Brian was one of the players. He leaned over the game, an intensity glinting in his eyes stronger than he brought to the lacrosse field where he had a reputation for getting too competitive. Guys like that weren't fun to play with or against, Scott thought, and he didn't blame Danny for staying out. Yet, a not-so-small part of him wanted to jump in and show the older boys that he could hold his own in more than one arena. Danny interrupted his thought before Scott could give in to the temptation. "Now, when the Xbox comes out…" Danny started. He trailed off, took a swig of his beer, then grinned.

Scott started to grin back at the recognition that Danny wasn't without his own competitive streak, then suppressed it as another thought bubbled up. "Aren't you worried about being seen talking to me?" So far, besides Jackson's comments upstairs, Danny was the only one to do more than offer a cursory acknowledgment of Scott's presence. He was also the only one who didn't have some level of anger emanating from him. Scott was deeply familiar with the subtle vibes of not-being-welcome that most the kids at school sent out around him; now that he was reading them through his werewolf enhanced senses, those vibes had become nearly palpable.

Danny took another swallow of his beer and cast an appraising glance over the cluster of increasingly loud boys. Between their yells and the soundtrack of the movie, a din filled the basement and conversation was getting increasingly difficult. "To tell you the truth, I was hoping that Jackson would call off the party." Travis, the other foosball player, pumped a fist into the air with a loud cheer that all the onlookers immediately echoed. Danny turned back toward Scott, positioning himself so that he was distancing himself from the other boys. "I had other plans for tonight."

Scott dipped his head once in a nod of recognition. He knew all too well what it was like to be anticipating a date and have it ruined with someone else's plans. "Jackson's been planning this for a while?"

"It's tradition," Danny responded, repeating Jackson's reason as if it was the answer he was supposed to give. He didn't sound too enthused. It also didn't tell Scott anything he didn't already know, which wasn't much.

Scott tipped his head back against the brick wall. The beer in his hand was warming from his body heat and he wished someone would open a window or turn up the air conditioning. The air was starting to feel stifling and had grown so thick with smells that Scott could barely breathe through his nose. Danny's scent was the strongest since he was standing so close. It reminded Scott of the way the sun felt reflecting off the sidewalk on a scorching hot day, and that just made him more uncomfortably warm. Beads of sweat began forming along his hairline and the top of his lip. He lifted the beer to his lips, desperate for anything that might help cool him down. He took a healthy pull, then started to sputter. The liquid burned in his mouth and traced a path of fire down his esophagus. He spat what he could back into the bottle and pawed at his mouth with his sleeve, trying to eradicate all traces of the foul brew.

"Drink much?" Danny quipped.

Scott shook his head. "What the hell is that crap?" he asked. He inspected the bottle. Though the label had started to peel off from the condensation, it was still readable. Scott had never heard of the brand of microbrew he held, but Jackson was not the kind of guy who would serve Coors or Budweiser. He brought the bottle back up to his nose and gave it a suspicious sniff. He couldn't discern anything through the olfactory morass around him. Then, realizing that Danny was going to interpret the coughing and head shaking as Scott basically admitting that he didn't drink—which wasn't true; he did back when there was a point—he waved his hand in front of his face in a desperate effort to erase his words. "No, no, no," he said. "I do. I think there's something wrong with the beer. Tastes like it's gone bad."

Danny frowned and took the bottle from Scott. He gave the open mouth a deep sniff. "Smells fine to me," he added, but he didn't hand the bottle back. He stood there for a long moment, eyeing the bottle and picking absently at the curling label with a fingernail. "Excuse me," he finally said. Without waiting for Scott's response, he headed over to the bar, bottle still in hand.

Scott watched him, trying to keep one ear open out of curiosity as to what Danny was going to do when he got there. He didn't get the chance to find out. A high-pitched squeal made him clutch his ears in a vain attempt to block the noise. It cut through his head, drowning his ability to think.

The next thing he knew, a cold metal can was being pushed into his hand. He heard a pop and a hiss.

"Try this," Danny was saying, and Scott had to blink several times and rub his fingers in his ears before he could pull himself together enough to make sense of what was going on. The squeal stopped as quickly as it had begun, with Scott none the wiser as to what it had been. No one else was reacting, which meant no one else had heard it. His senses hadn't been this out of control since he'd first been bitten. If he didn't know better, he'd swear he'd put down a whole six pack in the last five minutes, not a measly half sip—which still ignored the fact that werewolves couldn't get drunk.

"A soda?" he asked.

"You looked like you could use something different."

Scott nodded gratefully and took a long swig of the fizzing beverage. The fire that ran down his core subsided a little, though the ringing in his ears hadn't faded much. "Thanks."

"You know, you don't have to be here," Danny said. "If you're not feeling well…."

"I'm fine," Scott lied. "I want to be here." The pizza hadn't arrived yet, and Scott hadn't had anything to eat since an earlier dinner of sandwiches with his mom. Not that dinner was the reason. He could get food anywhere, including the leftovers that were in his own fridge at home. A burst of laughter bubbled through the air, the sound of his teammates having a great time.

Without him.

The team had accepted his skills readily enough, but in every other way, he might as well still be sitting on the bench. As far as the other first liners were concerned, Scott was little more than a good piece of equipment. When he couldn't even offer them that, they had been quick enough to forget about him. He had told Stiles that he wanted to make first line. The season was over, he'd had tons of playing time, he was officially first line—hell, he was co-captain of the freaking team—but he still hadn't achieved his goal. Tonight was his last chance to fix that.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Danny got Scott settled, he returned back to the bar. He'd left Scott's beer bottle in the corner, out of the way so that no one would grab it by accident. Picking up the bottle, he gave the open mouth a deep sniff. His instincts told him that whatever was going on with Scott started here. Nothing stuck out to his nose except the hops. The brew smelled really dark and heavy, one of those meals in a bottle that Danny found distasteful enough as a concept much less a beverage. He recognized the smell as one of Jackson's dad's expensive beers, the ones Jackson tried to foist on him when he thought he was offering Danny a treat. This was not the kind of beer that Jackson would offer to the team, and that raised even more suspicions in Danny's mind.

A lot of things bothered Danny about the scenario that was starting to take shape, not the least of which was his own unwitting complicity it in. _He'd_ been the one to bring the beer to Scott.

And Jackson was the one who had handed it to him. With the cap already off.

Danny sniffed the bottle again. While it didn't smell any different to him, Scott's reaction to drinking it wasn't simply one of an inexperienced drinker, nor had he been faking. The only other conclusion was that Jackson had tampered with the beverage. Danny lifted the bottle to his lips and took a small sip. Again, no difference that he could discern. Either his sample wasn't large enough, or whatever had been added was disguised. Sabotage like that was something Jackson would find funny. Worse, it was something that Jackson had put thought and effort into. And that was something else that bothered Danny. Jackson had always had a mean streak, but he used to know the line between _mean_ and _dangerous_ _and stupid_.

"State Champions!" Brian shouted, interrupting his thoughts. Danny jumped, tried to hide it in a step backwards that brought up to the edge of the counter. The granite pressed a line into his back, and the sudden almost-pain nearly made him drop the beer in his hand. He fumbled and caught it, certain that his suspicious behavior was going to raise questions he couldn't yet answer. Brian bounced into the nook, his exuberance turned up higher than Danny had ever seen. "Four. In. A. Row," Brian shouted over the din. "No one can top us." He thrust his beer bottle up and out, half-cheering, half-toasting the accomplishment. "Come on, Dude," he prompted when Danny didn't bring his own bottle up. "We kicked their asses!"

Danny clanked Scott's bottle against Brian's, trying to hide the flare of guilt at getting caught having less than loyal thoughts.

Brian brought his beer up to his mouth. On discovering that it was empty, he made a face of disappointment and betrayal. He dumped the empty in the sink, the apparent designated graveyard, and reached past Danny to the fridge.

"I thought East was gonna take us," Danny agreed blandly, hoping that Brian wouldn't feel the need to rehash the game now. "With the way they came out of the gate…" He trailed off, thinking of how the opposing team had gotten three goals past him practically before he could blink, and how Scott would have stopped them if he'd been playing. But he'd been benched. Coach would never bench his star player before the finals; he was far too corrupt.

"You put them right back in their place," Brian replied, now clutching his new prize. "You let them get their confidence up and then you _smashed_ them back down." He pounded the air with a clenched fist in obvious appreciation of Danny's skills. His reflexes were already getting impaired and Danny had to duck out of the way of Brian's celebratory gesture.

Danny nodded, unable to help the satisfied smile that pulled at his mouth. It had taken him a few goals to recalibrate, to remember how to play without McCall in the mix—without Scott's practically inhuman skills—and he'd done it, stepping up to levels he'd hadn't realized he'd ever left behind. His attention drifted over the couch where Scott still sat, the soda can pressed to his chin like Scott was trying to syphon off its chill.

A full moon appeared on the giant television set, its white light cutting through the darkened space in front of it. And, was it Danny's imagination, or did he see Scott flinch, his arm start to come up as if to block himself from the illumination? Scott dropped his arm and glanced around furtively before scooting to a corner of the couch out of direct line from the televised moon.

"I think we should lay off him," Danny said, suddenly. "Get Jackson to back off and leave him alone."

"Who?" Brian asked, narrowing his eyes in confusion. He turned, following Danny's gaze across the room. "McCall? That traitor? Don't tell me you have a crush on him."

Danny scoffed. "He's not my type." It was no secret that Danny liked his guys edgier; he had a thing for piercings and a touch of counter-culture vibe. Scott didn't have either.

"Too young?" Brian asked. Which was a silly question, really, since they were all sophomores, though Jackson strutted through the school like he was a senior and Danny and Brian were pulled along in that paradigmatic wake. Sometimes Danny forgot that they were the same age. Scott did give an impression of being much younger, which was part of his difficulty fitting in with the rest of the team. He also had a dark side, which was a different kettle of fish. Danny rubbed his head, remembering how Scott had attacked him in practice the previous month for no reason. The kid definitely had a temper on him.

"Too straight," Danny responded.

Brian rolled his eyes as if Danny had given a cop-out answer. "He sure didn't do anything to help us out there. I wonder what he did to piss Coach off, and why he couldn't wait another day to do it." Bitterness saturated his questions. Danny frowned. They'd won the game, so what exactly did the guys think Scott needed to be held accountable for? Scott may have missed the semi, but it wasn't like he'd acted alone, either. No one seemed interested in acknowledging either Jackson or Danny's part in Scott's absence, though.

The more Danny reflected on what had happened the day before, and the part he had played in it, the less his own actions made sense. "You know Coach," he replied, non-committally.

Brian nodded sagely and clinked his beer bottle against Danny's again, this time an act of team solidarity. "Another championship means his job's probably secure for next year." He didn't sound pleased about that. Coach got results on the field; that was inarguable. In the classroom, he was a different matter. "Are you sure you don't have a crush? You haven't taken your eyes off him since he got here."

Danny shook his head. The observation wasn't accurate, but it had more truth than not. Again, he wasn't the only one with his attention on Scott. Jackson stood near the hearth with his arms crossed. He had his jersey on. Danny glanced down at his own white t-shirt as if suspecting that his jersey may have appeared on him without his effort. It hadn't. Most of the other guys were still in their street clothes. That the jerseys were coming out meant that the entertainment would be starting soon, and Jackson was exhibiting his usual impatience.

No, it was more than that. Jackson's expression was drawn tight. Danny had known Jackson for years, had played on teams with him since Little League. He knew what Jackson looked like when he'd set his mind to get something he wasn't supposed to have, and that's what Danny was seeing right now. For some reason, Jackson had determined Scott to be a thing to get. "Not me," Danny replied to Brian's question. He wasn't ready to voice his new suspicions. As far as he knew, Jackson was also too straight—which didn't necessarily mean anything given how carefully Jackson sculpted the persona he showed the world.

Brian rightfully looked confused. He also looked glazed.

"It's not important," Danny replied with another shake of his head. While he watched, Jackson pushed off from the wall and crossed to the couches. He cruised straight into Scott's space, leaning over to speak to the younger boy. Jackson's body was partially turned, blocking any effort on Danny's part to lip-read what was being said.

A slap on his shoulder brought him back to the kitchen nook and Brian's presence. "Have another, man. You gotta lighten up and start _celebrating_." Brian bounced on his toes, his mood shifting back to full exuberance. "Four times, man! No one is better than the Cyclones. Hey, pizza's here!" With that he bounced out of the nook, but not before acquiring the rest of the six pack he'd taken his current drink from.

"Four times," Danny echoed, for lack of anything less superficial to say. He glanced back at Scott, who was making a concerted, and unbalanced effort, to stand up. Something was very wrong there. Scratch that. Something was very wrong here.

Given the circumstances, Danny felt no remorse about digging through the drawers and cabinets in the bar in search of whatever Jackson had put in the drink. He had just stood up from rifling through a mostly empty cabinet when he saw Mike, a senior on the team who physically reminded Danny of Ron from the _Harry Potter_ movies, "bump" into Scott while the younger boy was heading toward the stairs. Scott hit the carpet hard on his hands and knees, eliciting a guffaw from Travis followed by a something that Danny can't hear over the television.

Danny was torn for a second between going to help Scott and continuing in his search. His eyes landed on a set of hand-thrown pottery storage jars shoved up onto a set of otherwise empty display shelves over the bar, and he reached for the lid on the largest one at the same time as Mike and Zac, another of the seniors, offered their hands to Scott. Danny recognized immediately that their offer to help was insincere. While he couldn't promise that his would be any more effective, at least he meant his efforts.

Inside the middle jar he found a plastic baggie full of some kind of herb. Specks of deep blue among the green suggested ground up flowers. He rubbed the bag between his fingers, grinding the pieces of the herb together like he knew what he was looking for. He didn't. What he did know was that Jackson had hidden it for a reason, and that it wasn't anything illegal. Tracking a new suspicion, he cleared a spot in the sink and carefully started to pour out the contents of Scott's bottle. It wasn't long before he spotted a suspicious flake floating in the dark brown liquid. Then another. He captured it on the tip of his finger and held it up to the track lighting. It was hard to be sure, but the flake looked like it could be blue. Sometimes he really hated being right. For lack of a better plan, he tucked the bag into the front pocket of his jeans and went in search of his best friend.

Whatever Jackson had planned, he'd already put the ball into motion. One more glance at the still-cowering Scott made Danny suspect that the plan wasn't going where Jackson thought it was. The question was: Would Jackson be willing to believe that?


	3. Chapter 3

"You're not looking so good there, McCall," Jackson spoke.

Scott looked up at the older boy who had come to stand between him and the television, and now Scott realized that he was sitting on the couch, which was strange because he had no memory of making that trip across the room. He was also rubbing his knuckles up and down his sternum, like he'd seen his mother do when she complained of heartburn. A fire burned the length of his torso and putting pressure on it seemed like it should help, though it didn't really.

Jackson had his injured arm cradled across his chest, the white cotton sleeve encasing it contrasting with the burgundy team jersey that he'd slipped on. He also had a sneer curling his lips that combined dangerously with the spark in his blue eyes. He knew what was wrong with Scott. Hell, he was probably responsible for what was wrong.

"What did you do to me?" Scott asked. He could feel sweat beading around his hairline and on the back of his neck, dampening his hair and making it stick to his head.

"Just leveling the playing field a little," Jackson replied. "Look, McCall, it may not seem like it, but I'm doing you a favor. Again."

"W-w-what do you mean?" He was finding it hard to focus on Jackson's words. They were crowded in with the continued cheers and taunts of the boys at the foosball table and the screams of an actress on the television behind him. The sounds washed over him, pushing him under like it was the day of the full moon and not the day after.

"Face it, McCall. You may be on the team, but you're not one of us," Jackson spoke. His words stung, but Jackson seemed to be echoing Scott's own thoughts. What's worse, he could smell the sincerity behind them. Jackson meant what he was saying. "After the way you abandoned the team yesterday—"

Scott leaped to his feet, the sudden movement interrupting the older boy. "Y-y-you know what that was about," he said. "You were there. You _helped_ me last night. Did you think that was all a joke?"

Jackson shushed him with a tight hiss. "Sit down. You're making a scene."

Scott opened his mouth to protest. _He_ was making a scene? Before he could say anything, Jackson gave his shoulders a push. The force shouldn't have been enough to move Scott, but it was. Scott stumbled back against the couch and fell heavily into the leather covered cushions. Jackson stepped closer, leaning over Scott like he was conspiring with him rather than threatening him. His scent, one of newly turned earth, wafted over the younger boy.

The smell pulled at Scott's memory, laying bare a moment when he'd been young, helping his mom in the garden, and he'd turned over a clod of soil to find the partially decomposed head of a rabbit. That moment had been his first encounter with finding horrible things in innocuous places. He knew that whatever happened next, it was going to happen again, though he was having a hard time pinpointing what Jackson was doing to create that impression.

"Normally, tonight would be nothing more than a little blowing off of steam and a chance to formally welcome the new first liners," Jackson started. "After what you did…." He lifted one shoulder up and dropped it again as if being forced to acknowledge an inherent imbalance in the universe. "Let's just say that the team needs a chance to air their grievances."

If his thoughts weren't so muddled, Scott would have made the connection quicker. Instead, it took Jackson's thick eyebrows knitting together in exasperation, the glances he directed at teammates on the other side of the room that all seemed to say _Hang on. I can't be expected to perform miracles_, and the burgeoning scents of anticipation and jealousy from those teammates. He heard them continuing their joking and their games, though now their actions had lost their spontaneity and picked up a sense of requirement; they were in a holding pattern until Jackson sent the cue for them to switch activities. "Hazing?" Scott asked, finally getting it. "You're hazing me?"

Jackson shook his head. "That's such an ugly word. We're having a celebration. And if you ever want a chance of being accepted by the rest of the team, you're going to celebrate with us."

Scott drew in a deep breath and held it a moment before letting it out. Doing what Jackson wanted would be so simple. He'd suffered his share of humiliation, much of it at Jackson's command. Nothing new there. If a little formal hazing broke down the barrier between himself and the guys… But, that had been before, when anger was only a strong emotion. "I can't. Jackson, this can't happen. If you do this… if _I_ do this…" Scott couldn't name the consequence, though he'd dreamed about it often enough. Jackson shouldn't need it named. He'd seen Scott; he _knew. _The chains he'd used to secure Scott to the chair in the hotel room had weighed more than both of them did together. Those same chains were thick, intended to be used in the towing of vehicles, and there had been moments after the moon took over when Scott had believed they wouldn't be strong enough to stand up to his werewolf strength.

"Here's the thing, McCall," Jackson said. He leaned in close enough to whisper in Scott's ear. "I don't believe you. The full moon was yesterday. I think that your _bark_ is far worse than your _bite._"

"Push me too hard and it won't matter."

"Is that a threat?"

"Yes," Scott growled. At the same time, a wave of dizziness swept over him. He had to slap his hands onto the couch to keep from tumbling over, and he was suddenly reminded of where their conversation had started. What had Jackson done to him?

"That's why I took the liberty of some precautionary measures," Jackson replied, returning to his more casual pose. He ran an appraising eye over Scott, taking in the feverish skin and sweat dampened hair. "Looks like it's working." He gave a satisfied nod and stood up. "Play along, McCall. I'm not going to promise that it won't suck because, well, mostly it will. You play nice, though, and you'll find out what it means to be first line."

Scott watched Jackson head to the back of the basement where the other guys had gathered. The cluster of teammates had given up any pretense of playing the foosball and had moved into a huddle while they waited for directions from their captain. Without warning, their heat flared up, their warmth overlaying all other visual input. Scott squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. He hadn't done that. He knew he hadn't done that, giving in to his wolf vision in public.

In the movie, footsteps are pounding through empty corridors as people ran in vain from the monster that was chasing them. Scott had been there, on both sides of that chase. He listened to the actors' running and harsh pants of terror as he tried to pull back his wolf, and pleaded with himself to not let the movie become reality. At least two fictional people got their chests ripped open before he was certain that his eyes were brown again. It was only a movie, but he could practically feel their flesh giving way beneath his teeth and claws, could hear their final cries in Stiles's voice and Allison's.

Scott was pushing things too far, risking too much. His thoughts were moving slowly and weren't connecting well, but he knew he was walking on a dangerous line and it would only take a tiny push to fall. Jackson was far too eager to supply that push. As much as he'd never wanted to be here, now that he was, he needed to stay. He wanted to stay. He couldn't stay. He couldn't wait to find out if his eyes would stay brown, if his hands would stay human. The acceptance of his teammates wouldn't mean much if he ripped them limb from limb first. He reluctantly forced himself to his feet and headed for the stairs. The span of beige carpet between the couch and the staircase stretched, each step seeming to create distance rather than closing it. The room didn't want him to leave. It didn't. He fought through it, even as he tried to convince himself that it would be okay, that nothing would happen if he went through with the hazing. He'd learned so much about controlling the werewolf, come so far from that first accidental wolf-out on the lacrosse field after he was bitten.

He took a step, not certain which way he was going.

His foot landed on nothing, the ground having moved from its required location. The next thing he knew, his nose was pressing into the tight weave of the carpet.

Somewhere between hitting the floor and being helped back up, Scott forgot that he had been trying to leave Jackson's party. The warm hands that appeared on his upper arms and helped guide him to his feet reminded him of why he'd come to the party in the first place. His knees kept trying to give out, and the two helpers weren't letting him fall. One of his helpers smelled of old bread and melted crayons. The other smelled of olive oil and blankets fresh from the dryer. Their heartbeats were familiar but their names escaped him. Scott instinctively leaned closer to the one who smelled like blankets, eliciting strained laughs from both the boys. He kept his head down, just in case.

"Be a good doggie and sit," Melted Crayons said, pushing Scott down. The coolness of the brick seeped up through his jeans and he wiggled against it seeking more. His action sparked another round of laughter.

"See, he likes us," Blankets added. "He's wagging his tail. Keep being a good boy. We're gonna make you do lots of tricks."

It didn't take long for his assertion to become true. In short order, someone put a collar around Scott's neck. Its tags jangled in his ear. Someone else clipped a leash to the collar and tied it to the grate inside the fireplace. The cord was nylon, and should have been easy enough for him to break.

"Are you thirsty, little doggie," someone else asked. He smelled like a sock that had spent the weekend in a school locker. "If you're thirsty, you just have to tell us. Bark once for yes and twice for no."

"You don't have to take this," a new voice said. "Be strong, Scott." This voice had a name. Scott snapped his head up, searching for the speaker and finding him off to the side, his heart pounding.

"It's OK," Scott mouthed at him, willing him to understand. He went through worse tortures every full moon. Tonight's unpleasantries at least had the possibility of a good outcome, if he could hold himself together. He vaguely remembered that there'd been a reason he hadn't wanted to try, but he couldn't recall exactly what had lead him to giving up earlier.

Danny couldn't possibly have heard him over the din of the other boys shouting and laughing. But he cocked his head as if he had, brow furrowed in confusion. His brown eyes glistened with sympathy.

A hand clapped Scott on the back of his head, knocking him forward, knocking his vision red. He started to growl, but managed to check it in time. "Bad dog," someone said. "You haven't been trained very good. Let's try this again…" The directions were repeated. Scott was too busy modulating his breathing to pay them any attention. He shouldn't be this close to shifting, and it was taking more effort than it should to keep the wolf at bay. Second, third, fourth thoughts niggled at the back of his mind.

A pair of pristine white tennis shoes appeared on the beige carpet in front of him, bringing with them the tang of determination and new earth that was Jackson. The older boy lowered himself so he was crouching in front of Scott. He grabbed Scott's chin in his hand.

Scott clenched his fists, feeling the sharp points of his budding claws cutting into the meat of his hand, and brought his head up just high enough that Jackson could see his golden eyes through the black curls that had fallen over his face.

"That didn't take long," Jackson commented. "Good boy." He punctuated his comment with a light, deprecating pat on Scott's head.

This time, Scott didn't try to constrain the growl. His lip curled up at the corner and he felt the pressure in his gums of his canines trying to bud.

Jackson leaned closer, his breath gusting warm across Scott's face. It reeked of beer and jealousy. "Stop being so sensitive. Shouldn't you be used to a few dog jokes by now?" Growing a little contemplative, he added, "I'll bet Stilinski has cracked every single one he can think of. He seems to have a lot of jokes in his repertoire."

Scott shook his head, frustrated at Jackson's refusal to understand, more frustrated at his inability to explain. "It's not the jokes."

"Face it, McCall," Jackson breathed. "You brought this on yourself. If you hadn't—" He cut himself off with a click of his teeth.

"Hadn't what?" Scott demanded. Jackson drew a deep breath and forced it back out, as if that should be answer enough. Despite the sensory disturbances, Scott didn't miss Jackson's eyes flick to his injured arm before returning, harder, to bore into him. Jackson seemed to have thoughts of his own that he wanted Scott to guess, ones he had no inclination to spell out. Instead, he patted Scott's head again, though this time the touch was harder, more like a shove. The last thing Scott should have been doing was looking away, yet he had to in order to keep the glow in his eyes from showing.

"They're going to find out," Scott hissed, the statement a combination of reprimand and concern.

Jackson's mouth quirked, as if he were trying to not to smile. "Them?" he asked. He didn't point to the other guys or indicate them in any way, but there was no question about whom he referred to. They were arranged behind Jackson, in a half-circle several steps back. For once, Scott was grateful for the noise level in the basement as he knew they couldn't overhear the discussion taking place. "They're too drunk to remember anything or to take anything they do remember seriously," Jackson continued. "That's what the movies are for. You see, McCall, I thought of everything."

Suddenly Jackson rocked back, slapping his hands on his knees, as if he'd reached some kind of conclusion. "But … it never hurts to take extra precautions." He waved a hand and Scott heard a familiar clanking. Cool metal pressed around Scott's right wrist. He didn't dare turn to look, didn't dare raise his eyes, yet was still able to glimpse the other end of the cuff get secured to the heavy fire irons inside the fireplace. He tugged at the cuffs and heard a disturbing scrape of metal being yanked across masonry. Jackson thought this would be enough to hold him?

"Be a good dog," Mike chortled, his laugh too close to Scott's ear. The metal clicked shut, pinching Scott's wrist. "We're just getting started."

Scott growled again softly, knowing that he should have trusted his instincts about coming to this party, about staying. He hadn't, and now he was trapped. He rattled the handcuff, testing its strength. Bubbles of bitter laughter rose up from the onlookers and the air flared with their tainted scent of revenge.


	4. Chapter 4

Mike and Zac had coerced Scott into staying, and now had him handcuffed to the fireplace hearth that was the centerpiece of this part of the basement. Danny observed the proceedings, not sure if he should step in, if Jackson was going to let it go as far as it did. Not until he saw Scott yank at the bond and saw how Jackson rose up from his crouch in front of the younger boy with that self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face did he realize that Jackson had, once again, gotten exactly what he wanted.

The fireplace burned natural gas and, to the best of Danny's knowledge, was never used. The Whittemores had it installed for aesthetic purposes only. It was a curious choice for whatever Jackson planned to do to Scott, which begged the question of whether Jackson had a different purpose in mind for the structure than gathering the guys around to roast marshmallows and sing corny songs. While the trials the first liners went through at these post-State celebrations could be humiliating—Danny couldn't help cringing at what he'd seen before—they had never crossed the line into being dangerous. Then again, Jackson had never hid his loathing for Scott. Danny headed across the room. If he could do nothing else, it was stand between Jackson and the switch on the wall that turned the fireplace on.

But Jackson didn't go that direction. He sauntered to where the guys had clustered near the bottom of the stairs, and looked to be giving them directions. Only Mike and Zac had stayed behind, apparently assigned to guard duty. They flanked Scott, their arms crossed in a pose that spoke of too many bodyguard movies.

Danny took a deep breath and strode over to the cluster as if he was supposed to be there all along. No one objected when he pushed through the group so that he stood at the front, facing the one person he had called best friend.

"…dog bowl," he heard Joaquin say.

"Yeah, yeah," a junior, Taylor, replied. Taylor was the tallest member of the team, beating Danny by a good two inches. Standing next to him was a strange experience; Danny wasn't used to being shorter than people. "That'll be good. We can make him drink beer out of it." He sniggered at his own cleverness, then took a swig from the bottle he held. If his beer had been tampered with, he gave no hint of it.

"Where are we going to get all these things? We need a plastic bowl and slippers and…what else?" Brian asked. He looked at Jackson, obviously meaning the questions for him. He was crouched slightly, standing on the balls of his feet as if he couldn't wait to get to the activity. The glaze in his brown eyes had picked up a spark that scared Danny.

"What did I miss?" Danny asked, looking around the circle of guys. They were all flushed with excitement and alcohol, and all had put on their jerseys in the last few minutes. One of Danny's eyebrows twitched at this recognition. No one had given him the memo to dress, which was a not-so-subtle sign of his exclusion. What he didn't know was if his being left out was an award for playing well or a sign of a much bigger problem. The team had never turned on him. That didn't mean they wouldn't. There had always been a part of him that wondered if the team's acceptance of his sexuality was because of Jackson's power.

"We're working out some details," Jackson replied dismissively. "Don't worry," he continued, addressing Brian directly. "I know where we can get everything." A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. He licked his lips, then held up a hand, stilling the others. "We have to be careful. Don't push him too hard."

"Why not?" Joaquin challenged. Jackson shot him a withering glare, but Joaquin didn't back down. His face was flushed dark and his short black hair stuck out from his head like he'd been rubbing his sweaty hands through it all night. All the other guys nodded. Each of them had been through a similar experience and, Danny knew, each of them were using their memories of it to fuel their own actions now.

Danny was guilty of far more hazing than he was sometimes comfortable with. But, that was part of being on the team. It's what made them a team, brought them together. At least, that's what he'd always believed. Now he had to wonder. When he'd been inducted onto the first line the previous year, it had been shortly after he'd come out. He'd owned the one thing anyone had tagged as making him a mark. The boys had effectively had their ammunition neutralized and they had been next-to-helpless in coming up with more. For all the things they could have done to him, making him wear a dress and makeup for a couple of hours had hardly been worth thinking about. Maybe if his own initiation hadn't been so tame, he would have developed problems with the tradition sooner. Or maybe it wasn't the tradition that was the problem so much as the person leading the charge. He caught Jackson's eye.

"You got a minute?" Danny asked, tipping his chin toward his friend. He kept his expression neutral, not wanting to alert the guys to the possibility that he wasn't on board with their plans.

Jackson wasn't so easily fooled. His blue eyes narrowed in suspicion and he looked for a moment like he was going to tell Danny to shove off, then he smiled, "Always for you."

"This isn't cool," Danny said, when the two boys got far enough away that they wouldn't be overheard. From his angle, he could still see Scott, who was bent at the waist like he was trying not to throw up, his head buried in his hands. The younger boy was breathing deep and slow and he looked like he was trying to be oblivious to what was going on, but wasn't succeeding.

Jackson spun to walk away; Danny caught him with a restraining hand on his arm. Jackson flinched and yanked the arm away like the touch had hurt him.

"What did Scott do to you? Did he turn you down? Break your heart?"

"Break my…" Jackson's face flushed red, the color changing subtly as his emotions went from initial embarrassment to a much deeper upset as he caught up with the insinuation. "Why would you think…?"

"Hey, I'm hardly the one to judge," Danny said, holding his hands up defensively. He wasn't immune from crushing on guys who were completely wrong for him, and Jackson knew about every single one. "If Scott's what does it for you right now, then hey. That doesn't give you any right to treat him like this."

"You think Scott should get special privileges? That he should be exempt from what the rest of us had to go through? That he's more _special _than the rest of us?" Jackson huffed, his nostrils flaring in anger. "He's not _that_ good a player."

Danny gusted out a breath. Scott _was_ that good a player. Everyone on the team knew it. Hell, that's why Coach had promoted him to co-captain. Jackson's refusal to acknowledge Scott's strengths should be Jackson's problem, but he'd effectively made it a team issue. Not that Scott had done much to mitigate it. "It's not the initiation," Danny replied. "It's not even what you're planning to do. It's what you've already done." He pulled the baggie out of his pocket and held it out for Jackson to see. If Danny had any doubts, they were erased when he saw the utter lack of surprise in Jackson's eyes.

"Where did you find that?"

"It doesn't matter. I want to know what happened to you. Jackson Whittemore, my best friend, isn't this kind of guy. _This_," he said, waving the baggie, "is going too far. I want to know what you think he did to you that pushed you to this."

"That's not what you think it is," Jackson replied. He tried to grab the baggie from Danny's hand, but Danny was too fast. He tucked the bag back into his pocket and side-stepped Jackson's second swipe. He was bigger than Jackson by several inches and a score of pounds, and he wasn't afraid to remind Jackson that, if it came to a wrestling match, Danny would win. He wasn't the kind of guy one would pick for throwing his weight around, but that didn't mean he couldn't.

"You haven't answered my question. What did Scott do to you?" Over the past two days, he'd had plenty of opportunity to witness Jackson and Scott together in close proximity. What he'd seen was a side of Jackson he didn't know existed, one that was fawning and oddly thoughtful. He'd never seen Jackson crush that hard over anyone. The strange thing was that Jackson had seemed oddly oblivious to his actions, and that was when Danny really started to understand that his friend had changed. What he still couldn't figure out was why.

Jackson scoffed, still incredulous. "McCall?"

"Uh-huh," Danny replied.

"You think I have a crush on _Scott_?"

Danny raised an eyebrow in silent response.

"Did you miss the fact that I've been dating Lydia for a year?"

"I didn't miss the fact that you broke up with her a month ago," Danny countered, echoing Jackson's phrasing in order to emphasize his point.

"You really think that I have a thing for _McCall_?" Jackson asked, obviously horrified at the accusation.

Danny shrugged. "If I'm wrong, correct me."

Jackson made another swipe for the baggie. He succeeded in catching at the plastic, but Danny's reflexes were well trained and he caught the bag before Jackson could get a good grip on it. The plastic stretched in the brief struggle and Jackson's fingernails punctured a small hole in it. A sprinkling of the herb spilled onto Jackson's hands before Danny could fold the baggie on itself and get it shoved all the way in his pocket, out of Jackson's reach. "You have no idea what you're talking about," Jackson spat. He wiped off his hands, sending flakes of herb to the carpet that covered the basement floor.

"This isn't you," Danny protested.

"Maybe you just don't know me very well," Jackson shot back.

Danny flinched. He was beginning to suspect that there was a lot more truth to that statement than there should be. "If you have a problem with Scott, this is not the way to deal with it. Have you tried _talking_ to him?"

Jackson scowled. "Butt out, Danny. You don't know what's going on."

Danny shut his eyes briefly, seeking strength behind his eyelids. There was a time, not too long ago, that Jackson would not have been able to make that accusation. Jackson had always made sure that Danny was in the loop, sometimes even when Danny didn't feel any need to be. This time, though… Jackson had lost touch with more than his sense of right and wrong. "I know more than you might think," Danny replied.

Jackson contemplated him, obviously trying to assess what Danny did and didn't know. The problem was, Danny wasn't sure either. He turned aside with a scoff and a shake of his head, apparently deciding that Danny didn't know anything worth worrying about.

"You've changed, Jackson. Last few weeks, you've become a different person. Someone I can barely recognize. You still look like my best friend, but this anger … that didn't used to be part of you. Talk to me. Is it Lydia? Is it lacrosse? Are you pissed that Coach gave the award to Scott?"

Jackson snorted, his eyebrows jumping up to his hairline in sudden mirth. "The MVP? You think I'm upset about _McCall_ getting the MVP?" He started to laugh as if Danny had just told him that Coach was quitting coaching to take up synchronized swimming. Danny recognized that laugh; he'd struck a nerve.

"Enlighten me," Danny challenged. He could sense a crack in Jackson's determination, perhaps a chance to bring his friend back.

The crack sealed over almost immediately. Jackson's eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tensing. "Maybe you should stay out of the way tonight," he said in a tone that only sounded like a suggestion. "Let me deal with McCall. I can handle him."

Danny rubbed his knuckles over his mouth while he sized up the situation. His mom had a saying that Danny had seen validated all too often: if the picture doesn't make sense, it's because you don't have all the pieces of the puzzle. Danny was missing pieces. What had appeared to be a revenge game for a thwarted crush had to be more; he just didn't know how. What he did know is Jackson had already crossed the line and he seemed determined to stay on the wrong side, unless Danny could figure out how to drag him back. Or decide if he was worth dragging back. Finally, Danny spread his hands in a gesture of capitulation, though it wasn't a position he meant.

Jackson was too focused on his own agenda to notice Danny's lack of sincerity. "I knew I could count on you," he said. He clapped Danny on the shoulder in a familiar move that made Danny's chest ache with hurt, then turned to go back to devising new torments for Scott.

Danny chewed on his lower lip as he watched Jackson go. After all the years he had known Jackson, he never thought his friend would turn into such a stranger. He thought he knew everything there was to know about the guy, that he had made peace with even Jackson's negatives. He never thought that he wouldn't have noticed his best friend spinning out of control until it got to this point.

Scott smelled Danny's approach, the scent of heat making a new line of sweat break out across Scott's upper lip. He wiped it away with his free hand, and kept the hand in place near his mouth to hide the teeth that were trying to break through. The dirty and scuffed sneakers that appeared in his line of sight swam in and out of focus. Scott blinked several times before the image stabilized.

"You don't have to do this," Danny said. Unlike Jackson, he didn't crouch down. Danny stood over Scott, his concern pouring down to envelope his teammate.

Scott shook the arm with the handcuff on it, giving the chain a good rattle. "It's too late to back out now."

Danny regarded him silently for a long moment, then asked the one question Scott hadn't been anticipating. "Would you, if you could?"

Scott had to think about that. Like Danny's shoes, the answer wavered and he couldn't seem to catch a definitive yes or no out of his thoughts. As strongly as one part of him said that he should have left a long time ago, another kept reminding him that he'd made it this far without serious problem. If he could just last a little longer…. His canines pressed on the inside of his lips, almost enough to draw blood, then abruptly retracted.

Danny sighed, as if Scott's silence was acquiescence, or an admission of defeat. As if he'd expected no other response. "That's why this party is a tradition. None of us are strong enough to be the first to say no."

Scott nodded and risked peeking up. He was fairly sure that his eyes were normal. If Danny saw anything he shouldn't, he didn't react. Danny had one hand shoved his pocket, his fist balled up, the outlines of his knuckles showing through the denim. He put his other hand over his mouth in an unconscious mirroring of Scott's pose. They stayed like that for a solid minute. No one interrupted them, or even appeared to notice them. Jackson and the other boys were still plotting; Scott could hear their plans clearly, though even that sense wasn't processing correctly and he felt himself starting to grow frustrated at the confusion of noises and talk.

"It's too late," Danny said.

Scott's brow furrowed at the odd comment. He shifted his position on the hearth, the bricks under where he had been sitting having grown uncomfortably warm. The edge of coolness in his new location soaked up through his jeans and stabilized him somehow, and he realized that what Danny had actually said was "It's not too late." He'd heard it all wrong.

"You have the keys?" he asked, rattling his wrist one more time for emphasis.

"I can get them," Danny replied. "Say the word."

Danny sounded so sincere, like he wanted to beg Scott to be the one to break the tradition, yet couldn't bring himself to beg. For a split second, Scott wanted to give him that. Then he heard the hitch in Danny's heartbeat, the slight hike in blood pressure between the lub and the dub, and he lowered his head. "No," Scott replied. "It's OK."

"Scott…." Danny said, a note of warning creeping into his voice. "He wants to hurt you."

"No," Scott replied, the insight into Jackson's behavior coming suddenly. "He wants to punish me." _He wants to punish me for having what he can't have, _he thought.

Danny's heartbeat slowed and Scott could practically hear him turning the conversation over in his mind. "I guess…" Danny started.

Before he could continue, a sharp pain twisted through Scott's abdomen. He doubled over, clutching at his stomach as best he could. His teeth reemerged as he went over and he bit his tongue. The metallic taste brought forth a rush of saliva. He swallowed hard.

Danny's shoes were gone.

The cluster of boys had broken up. They were now positioned around him. He smelled the sharp bite of newsprint and heard the slowly increasing thumping of their hearts. The combined arrhythmic patter drowned him, cutting off his ability to think.

"That's more like it," Scott heard the dead rabbit say. Its empty eyesockets and mummified jaw had lain in the newly turned earth, and his breath had been stolen away. His lungs had seized up; he'd gasped for air, unable to find any, and fallen to his knees in the damp dirt. He had been gasping for air, then, unable to draw a breath. In the now, his lungs worked but the smells saturating the musty air were foul. He whipped his head around, trying to find air worth breathing, and heard derisive laughter.

A rolled up newspaper slammed into the side of his head, knocking it back. "Stay!" He couldn't tell who said it. A new wave of laughter welled up from the waiting boys.

"I don't think he can be trained," someone commented.

A white plastic dog bowl was dropped in front of him. The amber liquid that filled it sloshed over one side and beaded onto the carpet.

"Doggie needs to relax," someone else replied. "He needs more to drink."

"And then he'll start tripping over his own ears." The person who said this chuckled, a dark and hateful sound.

Scott's head was pushed down, his whole body forcibly shoved over. The collar yanked on his neck as he went down, landing hard on the tightly woven carpet. More beer sloshed into the weave. The droplets quivered on top of the carpet, unable to soak in or disperse. From this close, Scott could see small particles floating in the liquid. He fought to turn his head away, to not have his face land in the dog bowl, to keep the liquid away. He didn't know what those particles were, but instinct told him they were bad.

His chin hit the side of the bowl, upending it. Beer splashed onto his face, got into his eyes. He swiped at it with his free hand. In the few drops that landed on his lips, he could feel the burn. He sputtered. Another hard slap of rolled up newspaper hit his hunched shoulder, accompanied by a reprimand he couldn't understand. He couldn't understand anything they were saying. All he could smell was antagonism and challenge. He understood challenge. He rocked to his knees, pulling on the bonds that restrained him. Metal dug into his wrist as corollary metal scraped across cement. The nylon cord started to stretch.


	5. Chapter 5

Danny started when he saw Scott take the first hit with the newspaper. He'd seen the guys standing around, gripping the rolled up papers like weapons, and had positioned himself to stay out of the way. He'd thought it was nothing more than posturing, had believed up until Travis raised his arm that the boys weren't going to progress any further than looking tough and threatening. Then Travis's arm came down and Danny heard the thwack of the newspaper hitting Scott's head. He winced in sympathy and immediately moved to intervene. His fingers curled unconsciously around the baggie in his pocket and he wondered if he'd already delayed too long. He reached the rest of the team right after Scott's head hit the dog bowl, was positioned just too far away to reach when Scott lunged.

Jackson caught the younger boy and wrestled him to the ground with a move that Danny had never seen before. He'd probably hired a trainer specifically to teach him that move, which meant that he had expected to need it—and that stilled Danny from diving into the fray for a critical moment, his curiosity piqued enough to wonder for a second, just a second, if Jackson really hadn't gone off the rails.

With his knee pressed into the small of Scott's back, and Scott's unshackled arm twisted behind him, Jackson leaned over. "I'm better than you," he hissed. "I'm smarter. I'm far better looking. I'm richer. Why did _you_ get what I deserve?"

Danny heard the questions clearly over the horror music pounding from the surround sound. They surprised him only in their vehemence. He figured it wasn't the MVP award that Jackson cared so much about.

Scott writhed on the floor under Jackson's grip. His hair was wet from the spilled beer; liquid dripped from his chin. He looked spent, like he could barely muster the strength to not collapse entirely. Danny frowned, trying to make sense of this new development. Then Jackson spoke again, softer, yet still audible now that Danny had closed the gap until he was nearly standing over the fighting boys, ready to rip them apart if Jackson lost his control completely and went in for the kill.

"Do you have any _idea_ what it's like to sell your soul to the devil and to have him tell you it's not _enough_?" Jackson demanded, his words dark and angry.

Scott shook his head, the movement pulling taut the leash that was still attached to the collar around his neck.

Out of the corner of his eye, Danny caught movement as Travis stepped forward. Brian stood next to him, vibrating like it was taking all his self-control to not follow. Travis's arm came up, the newspaper rolled up tight and ready to hit hard.

Danny caught Travis's arm before it could come down and twisted it away. The paper fell from Travis's grasp. "What the hell's wrong with you, man?" Travis demanded. He blinked drunkenly at Danny. His cheeks burned with bright red splotches, either from anger or the growing warmth of the basement air.

"He doesn't think we should have won," Brian replied, stepping up into Danny's face. "Four championships too much for you, huh?" he spat. "You wanna tear the team apart and make sure there's no fifth?"

"Weak link!" someone called.

Just like that, the rest of the first line shifted their focus from Scott to Danny. They closed in on Danny, an incoherent rage fueling their goal. Danny got his arms up to block his face, forced his knees into a defensive crouch. He blocked a fist to his head, felt another punch land on his side. The impact was too sloppy, too hastily thrown for anything but dramatic effect. Taunts rained down on him, all the players buying without question into the accusation that he had been trying to break apart the team.

A roar cut through the noise. The room went dead quiet in a single, unified gasp.

"I should have worn different shoes," came the tinny voice of one of the movie actors.

A beat passed, then came Scott's cry of "Get away from him!" The next thing they knew, Jackson was being thrown across the room. He sailed over Brian and Travis's heads and landed on the couch, the wind knocked out of him.

"Awesome," Joaquin yelled, the mood in the room instantly shifting from anger to excitement. He pumped the air with his fist. "Excellent party tricks."

"Hey, watch out for your shoulder," Zac replied, his tone managing to be both appreciative and sarcastic, like he was just _knew_ that Jackson had been milking the shoulder injury all along.

"Fuckin' yeah," added another of the guys. "Now that's a stunt."

Once again redirected, the boys headed en masse toward Jackson, either to check on him or to check for wires, eager to see how he had rigged such a demonstrative stunt.

Rather than focusing on where Jackson ended up, Danny turned to see where he'd started. Scott was on his feet in front of the hearth, a broken handcuff hanging off one wrist and a mutilated leather collar in his other hand. His eyes were lowered and his chest was heaving. "We're done," Scott announced through harsh breaths. "It's over. I'm done." He wobbled before catching his balance. Sweat, or possibly beer, dripped down his chest. "Screw tradition." He pitched the broken items to the carpet, paused, then kicked the dog bowl, spilling the rest of its contents across the carpet. "I don't need this."

Scott started up the stairs. He made it less than half way before his knees gave out and he crumpled into a heap. He slid down the rest of the way with a series of bumps before coming to a stop.

The television flicked off, the movie going silent. A second later, all the lights came back on, flooding the basement in reality. The guys collectively winced and rubbed their eyes, blinking at each other like they'd just woken up.

Jackson had pried himself up, using the sofa for support. He set the remote control that he'd just used on the top of the couch, hand still resting over it.

"What's that about?" Zac asked, annoyed. The newspaper fell from his fingers to land forgotten on the floor. Sweat stains darkened his armpits and he crossed his arms defensively as he looked to Jackson for an explanation. "The party was just warming up."

"I'd say the party is over," Danny replied. "Right, Jackson? It's over." He indicated Scott with a flick of his eyes at the prone boy, challenging Jackson to pretend not to know what he was really talking about. Whatever Jackson thought Scott owed him, Scott had more than paid.

"Not until I get what I want," Jackson replied through tight lips.

Danny eyed him for a protracted moment, his thoughts whirling with all the things he should say, all the things he wanted to say, all the things he would regret saying. It all needed to be said, and none of it had a result that wouldn't knock the ground from under his feet. He didn't know where to begin. Jackson's eyes had narrowed and his lip curled up. He looked like he was getting ready to vault over the couch. "Is that your choice?" Danny finally asked, all of his thoughts coalescing into that one question.

Jackson's grip on the edge of the couch back tightened, then abruptly eased. He sunk onto the seat, his head dropping forward into the black leather cushions.

Danny filed the answer, such as it was, away for further contemplation. He was going to need some time to think through what to do and he didn't have that time now. Instead, he crossed to Scott.

Scott was lying face down on the staircase, his arms sprawled over his head. He looked like he was conscious, but just barely, his face bloodless and breathing heavily labored. Danny rolled him onto his side and helped him sit up. Vaguely, he recalled that Scott suffered from asthma. He started patting Scott's pockets, searching for an inhaler, not sure what else to do.

The single embedded light bulb over the staircase started to flicker. Perhaps it was the shadows that flickering created, but Danny could have sworn that he saw Scott's face change, his brow thickening, orbital bones and nose growing heavier. He blinked, looked again. All he saw was Scott's normal face, his eyelids flickering as he fought for more consciousness.

"Scott?" he asked.

Scott convulsed, his whole body spasming in a series of muscle jerks like a string of firecrackers exploding. A strange, strangled noise escaped his mouth. A spurt of thin, black liquid-like ink followed. Danny fought back a retch of his own at the sight of the substance, unlike any vomit he'd ever seen, staining Scott's face and shirt. Since it was already soiled with beer and, now, the black fluid, Danny eased Scott's shirt over his head and used it to mop up the boy as best he could. He waited, wadded up shirt at the ready for another round. Fortunately, it appeared that the one heave was all there would be. It also seemed that the purge had been what his body needed. Already a better color was returning to Scott's face.

Scott's tongue dipped out, wetting his lips. He drew and held a deep, careful breath, testing. By the time he exhaled, he appeared appreciably stronger. Danny couldn't help but marvel at the recovery. How he had wished that his own drinking excesses could be healed so quickly. "Help me up," Scott said, interrupting Danny's musings.

Danny got his hands under Scott's arms and helped him to his feet. Scott kept his balance only through a hand planted on the wall, his fingers spread wide. "Are you sure?" Danny asked, immediately questioning whether Scott had recovered that much at all. A lot of misperception could be blamed on that flickering light. "I can call someone. Your parents? Stiles?"

"Can't," Scott said with a bitter laugh. "M'phone's upstairs."

All the phones were upstairs, Danny realized. That had been part of Jackson's plan, a simple move to make sure no one would be interrupted from the outside, to make sure no one could reach the outside. Jackson had wanted to isolate the boys and trap them in their own world. Clearly that hadn't gone as well as Jackson had hoped. Danny repositioned his hands on Scott to better support his weight and helped him navigate up the stairs one at a time. Twice Danny felt Scott go limp, the abrupt change in weight distribution nearly knocking them both back down the stairs. Only fast reflexes and a lot of time in the weight room on Danny's part kept them both upright.

After one almost fall, Danny glanced back once at the rest of the guys, at Jackson. The guys had dispersed across the basement, desultorily participating in cleanup of beer bottles and pizza detritus. Their feet dragged and their progress was slow and reluctant, as if a much greater punishment awaited them when they finally finished this one. Jackson still knelt on the couch, his shoulders hunched. It took all of Danny's will to not set Scott down on the stairs to rest while he went to check on Jackson. Danny was angry, an emotion he felt so rarely that it had taken him until now to fully identify it, and he wanted to prod at it some more on his own time before he made any decisions he might regret. Acting rashly was Jackson's territory, not his. Yet, some decisions shouldn't be undone, such as helping Scott get out of here. The kid had been through enough tonight.

By the time the two guys reached the small table in the hallway, Scott was walking mostly under his own power, though his steps remained unsteady.

Danny retrieved their phones and his keys from the bowl on the hall table, holding Scott's phone out of the guy's way rather than handing it back. "I'm gonna call Stiles," he insisted. He started scrolling through the contacts list looking for Stiles's number.

Scott shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said, though it didn't sound convinced. "Just need to get some fresh air."

Danny posed his finger over the call button, and hesitated. It was late. Stiles was probably asleep. A dozen good reasons why he should call anyway flitted through his mind, yet he couldn't bring himself to push the button, perhaps a last holdover of first line loyalty. What happened at this party was supposed to be secret, and there was a part of him that couldn't violate that. Scott stood across from him, shirtless and drawn in, his arms crossed, waiting. He was staring introspectively at the floor.

"Tonight could have been a horror movie," Scott murmured.

"You mean it wasn't?" Danny asked. He might have been cracking a joke. He wasn't sure.

Scott blinked, as if he'd forgotten that Danny was there and could hear the things he said. "It could have been a lot worse."

Danny nodded slowly. A finality to the way Scott had said the last left Danny disinclined to ask for clarification. Instead he first handed Scott's phone to him, then his shirt. Scott wrinkled his nose on accepting the soiled item, but could do nothing with it except ball it up further and tuck it in the waistband of his jeans. As soon as he was organized, Danny ushered them out the front door. He stood close to Scott while they descended the long staircase in front of the house.

Scott placed each step carefully and with trepidation. The stillness of the night dampened the sounds coming from the house, swallowing them like dye diffusing in the ocean. Scott could still hear the rest of the team at their cleaning efforts, but the specifics were lost in the clicking of sprinklers watering the yards, the buzzing of the streetlamps and crickets. Though he was feeling better, the wet shirt in his waistband, the chill night air on his naked chest, were a stark reminder of what he had been through. His stomach still roiled, its protestations loud to his ears.

"I shouldn't have canceled the date," Danny said, into the otherwise stretched silence between them. Unspoken questions pinged off that silence like the insects he could see flinging themselves at the lights, tightening Scott's stomach more at the thought of what he'd have to say, what he'd have to deny. He had questions of his own, too. About Jackson. About what had gone down between Jackson and Danny. About what had really happened. He wasn't so sure that anything he remembered was valid. The street was quiet, the houses lining it dark; there'd be no convenient interruptions, no quick excuses that let him get away.

Floral scents from the early spring blooms filled the air, crowding out all the residual smells from the basement and dampening Scott's memories with associations of gardening with his mom and bumming around the forest with Stiles. "Good thing you didn't," Scott replied, quietly, carefully. _Really good thing_, he thought. He could easily imagine how the evening would have gone if there hadn't been someone at the party that his instincts hadn't tagged as _enemy_. The flowery scent shifted his memory to his grandfather's funeral. He gagged at how close it had come, how far he'd been willing to push himself knowing the possible ends.

At the bottom of the stairs, Danny turned onto the sidewalk. "I'm good to drive," he said. "Can I offer you a ride home?" A cool night breeze swept over his face, rustling his shirt. Scott shivered, and scrunched his face up in contemplation of the offer. Cloud cover he hadn't noticed drifted away. The white light of the recently full moon suddenly shone down on the street, dampening the yellowish street light. Danny rubbed his hands against his jeans, peered up at the moon. When he spoke, it was deliberate yet detached, like he was selecting his words from inside a box of thorns. "Or, perhaps you'd like to run?" He avoided eye contact as he said it, yet Scott didn't sense any antagonism or fear.

Scott sighed. The awkward questions were bound to happen. Almost better to get them over with sooner rather than later, though he wasn't sure he was up to an extended round of lying and misdirecting. On the other hand, he also didn't trust his ability to get himself home safely. "A ride would be nice. Real nice." In the morning, he'd stop by the clinic and check in with Doctor Deaton, find out what had happened, make sure he was going to be okay. Right now, he just wanted to get home and fall into his bed.

"The car's this way," Danny said, pointing down the street. Vehicles lined the residential street on both sides, more so than the number of guys at the party would suggest. Scott idly wondered whom all the cars belonged to, it occurring to him that the households might simply have more cars than they could park in their garages. "It's cool, you know," Danny continued. "You missing the game and all that. I get why."

"You do?" Scott's voice cracked on the question. He could feel the lead-up, Danny inching toward the questions. He wished Stiles were here to help him spin the answer, or even just to do something awkward and embarrassing so that Danny would forget what he was going to ask.

Then Danny was speaking again. "Look, McCall. You don't owe me anything. I figure, I got your back last night, you got mine tonight. Right?"

Scott nodded. He was listening hard, trying to piece together any non-verbal clues Danny had to provide. His perceptions were still tilted. He could hear an owl hooting in the distance, feel the cool night humidity fill his lungs with each breath. Danny's footsteps had the careful sound of someone who couldn't see where he was going. Scott couldn't pick up anything more incriminating from the guy beyond a strong sense of _being_. At some level he understood that Danny was merely taking the world as it was because that's how it was. He wasn't used to that.

"The way I see it, we're on the same team," Danny said. He punched Scott's upper arm lightly, casually. It was a gesture of impulse and trust, not one you'd dare make toward an animal you feared. "The other guys will come around when they sober up."

"I'm OK if they don't," Scott murmured, surprised as he heard the words that he meant them. Most of the offenders would be graduating soon. The ones who weren't-like Jackson-had never been on his side to begin with and he'd survived and held his own on first line. Jackson had even helped him, though in true Jackson fashion, that help had come with a price.

Scott touched the spot on his arm where Danny's mock-punch had landed. He never would have predicted how Danny would have acted tonight. What's more, Danny wasn't giving any impression that _his_ help came with strings. Maybe coming to Jackson's party hadn't been the mistake he'd suspected it would be. "Yeah," he said, thinking back to what Danny had said: _we're on the same team. _

His fingers drifted down to the wadded up shirt and he thought about his jersey that was sitting on his bed, the one he had been told he wouldn't need tonight. Turned out Jackson knew what he was talking about there. Scott climbed into the waiting car, a real smile tugging at his lips. "We're teammates."

END

_A/N: Thanks to those who read and those who commented. Comments feed the soul._


End file.
